


Just Sex

by Drakey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, I mean it when I mark something as explicit, Infertility, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakey/pseuds/Drakey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The test results pushed Hermione into Harry's arms, and the weird thing was always going to be that nobody cared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Pay attention to the dates. The dates are very important, as they tell you where in the story you are.

_January 16, 2005_

The tension between us never broke in that tent. All those months alone together, no Ron to muck things up, no Snape--still, I have to correct myself--no Professor Snape to make life difficult, no one who could see us, no one who could hear us, and we could have done anything, anything at all, out there in the woods, and on the mountainsides, and everywhere we went, but there I was with a horcrux around my neck and a stolen wand and a girl, a real, live girl, that, dammit, I liked, and I went and lost my virginity a year and a half later, when she was nowhere nearby.

Ginny wouldn't have blamed me.

But I've always wondered what it would have been like, that first time, me and her pressed together in the tent, squeezing both of our bodies together on a bed four sizes to small for it to be safe to even say the word "sex" on it.

It would have been hot.

I know it would have been hot, and I suppose that's why I flinch when she touches my shirt to pull it off. We've never done this before, and I'm all nerves and fear and guilt and it occurs to me that neither of us knows what we're doing. How in the hell do you do this the first time? 

She pulls her hand back. "Harry, if you want to take them off yourself--"

I know by then that she won't tell me that we don't have to do this. She's said it enough times already, but now, I'm rushing forwards, because if we're going to do it, then she's going to take my clothes off, and I'm already peeling away hers. I don't reply to her, I don't think, or at least not in words, though actions speak loudly enough, I suppose. Her clothes go flying away, and then she's on her back on the bed, and I _know_ , I really do, that it's the bed she shares with her husband, but right then, it's a lot more important that it's the bed she shares with me.

I know it would have been hot because we're breaking the tension now, and she whimpers under me, barely controlling the urge to shout, and I want to make her scream, and I know this isn't the best sex I've ever had, but it's still amazing.

Hermione knows how to feel really, really good.

+----+

_November 13, 2004_

I stare at the test results in my hand. One little owl with one little letter and my life is ruined, and my marriage is over, and I'm a ruin, too. What good am I to anyone? I can't be any use to a child, because I can't have one.

The healers say it must have happened in the war. They don't know who did what, but I cannot have children.

I hand the note silently across the table. I can't look up, just keep staring at my oatmeal. I've lost my appetite. A soft, slightly bitter voice says "Lucky Harry."

It is a voice that knows exactly what will happen.

+----+

_July 3, 2005_

By now, I am accustomed to the way she feels, and if that seems strange to me, I never say anything about it. It's always the same, a passion that shocks me and a level of noise, once she learned to let go, that tells me there is little room for doubt: she wanted me as well, all those years ago in the tent. We do not make love; making love is what she did with Ron, what she still does, but he cannot satisfy her, and this is why she has turned to me. I was surprised the first time she screamed my name, louder than a jet engine and more shrill than nails on a chalkboard, and so instantly arousing that I could hold on no longer, that I lost control myself and yelled her name as well. 

I know better than to think that we are making love as I thrust into her, as she yells again and again "Harry, Harry, Harry," like some kind of religious chant. Her legs are wrapped around me because that is what works for her, and with what she cannot have, I can only allow her to have whatever she wants.

We are not making love. We are rutting.

I yell her name loudly enough to match her as I ejaculate.

+----+

_July 31, 2005_

"Hermione needs me. I'll probably miss dinner."

He says the words as though they are the most natural thing in the world, as though he has not just said to his pregnant wife, "I'm off to have sex with another woman, don't bother setting a place for me, as we'll be at it a while."

I touch the swelling place where our son is growing. He will be the second, and he will know as well as James does that his father is climbing onto Hermione, onto my sister-in-law, for Merlin's sake...

But the tragedy is that I cannot be angry. He has never lied to me, for one thing. For as long as we've been together, never once has Harry lied. He told me the full details of what happened between them after the first time, and the second and the third, and after that I asked him to stop. I do not need to know that he makes another woman scream in bed. I do not need to know that she makes him feel like a teenager who is after nothing more or less than sex, sex, sex.

I do need to know that he doesn't love her the way he loves me. He says that he is going because she needs him, and he does not lie to me, and so that is why he is going. If she were not to need him anymore, he would not go, but what he can do to her, Ron cannot, and for as long as that is true, he will have sex with her whenever she needs him.

I cannot hate Hermione. My Harry does this because she needs him, and I can understand what it is to need Harry.

+----+

_February 12, 2006_

This time, she hasn't bothered to take off her cardigan. I've quite thoroughly ruined it, there are buttons on the floor, and it has ceased to matter because she is screaming, screaming, shrieking, and that is all that truly matters at that moment. The sound goes straight to my groin, and I ejaculate, filling her up so thoroughly I wonder if I will ever stop ejaculating. She gasps as I pull out of her, finally, and I lay down on my side to catch my breath.

Soon, she has me hard again, and this time I am laying on my back when she mounts me. "Again?" I say.

Hermione nods breathlessly, and then she gasps loudly.

Again, the sound goes straight to my groin.

+----+

_November 20, 2005_

The sounds they make are wild and almost animal. The first two times, they were quieter, at least, trying to be discreet. 

I still hated Harry for it. I spent three weeks hating him. Not all at once, of course. There was the full afternoon of wanting to sink my wand through his eyeball the first time. There was the hour or two of loathing that he could satisfy her and I couldn't. 

But hell, if we can't have children, what's the point?

There was a time when I thought that my marriage was over because of it, that I would never again make love to my wife. If she couldn't bear my children, then how could I stand to be with her. Now, I realize that what has happened is that my marriage has changed irrevocably. And that, from time to time, I despise my best friend.

There was the solid week I spent at Malfoy Manor after the third time they did it. It was the first time I heard her scream his name, just the same as it echoes through the house now. The empty, empty house.

Merlin. 

It never goes away, that emptiness. Two rooms we cannot ever fill.

I remember the look on Draco's face--and he is Draco, now, just as I am Ron to him, both of us united by those times when we hate Harry--the smug way he called me "weasel" when I stood bedraggled on his front step.

He rubs his prowess in my face when we drink together. He tells me he is sure he must have children out there somewhere, and I tell him to shut the hell up and keep drinking, but we always end up commiserating over Harry. 

One day he confesses that he would have loved to have Ginny.

One day I confess that I have sat alone in the house and masturbated to the sound of my wife being screwed by another man in the next room.

And when Harry steps out of the bedroom where he has just made my wife scream, there is no guilt on his face. He greets me as though he has done nothing wrong, and I greet him as though I have not washed my hands and made myself into the very model of a man who cannot bear what he hears in the next room. 

He knows that I can hear him, but I know that he does not know my secret.

It feels good to lie to him, just a little.

+----+

_June 5, 2005_

I take her from behind in round three. I am impressed that I have managed round three, but it is less surprising with Hermione than it would be with Ginny. Hermione's orgasms make me want to throw her onto the bed and thrust into her until she begs me to stop, yells that it's too much.

She is covered in sweat, and my hands have a hard time holding her hips. My penis is spent and tired, and aches just a bit from use, but the feeling overwhelms the difficulties, and I slide my hands both to her breasts as I ejaculate into her, shouting her name.

Hermione screams that she can feel me ejaculating inside of her.

+----+

_March 3, 2006_

I do not know why I am so loud when I am with Harry.

When I lost my virginity to Viktor Krum, even as young as I was, I was far quieter. When my husband mounts me and drives me to orgasm, I am driven into speechlessness by the sensation.

Harry makes me scream.

We are so loud that the neighbors are convinced Ron will one day take the hints they keep dropping and realize that his "friend" Harry is actually screwing his wife. The neighbors, of course, are Muggles and they don't know the magnitude of the scandal they are sitting on. I am sometimes surprised that the Daily Prophet has not yet gotten wind of the story, but of course, I make sure to keep any and all interfering insects away from my home.

It is not that the pleasure is greater with Harry. He satisfies me, and the physical training of an auror means that he has stamina to keep going from the moment he answers my call until the moment I can take no more. But the simple magnitude of the pleasure is no greater.

Harry just... makes me scream.

If we had children in the house--but of course, that's impossible, hence Harry making me scream--they would have to be taken elsewhere so that they wouldn't investigate the noises and learn the truth about sex far earlier than we could wish.

And Ron tries to hide his jealousy. He knows that Harry makes me scream, and I have told him that it is a mystery to me, but he is hurt by it, more than he will ever tell me. 

We are not discreet. We have never been. It seemed unfair to try to hide our times together from Ron, and so we have not. We do not announce to him that we will be having sex, and we do not tell him the details, but he knows. I am aware that it hurts him, and I know that he hates Harry a little for it, for giving me what he cannot, but I believe that he would be more hurt, and more jealous, if we were to be secretive and quiet.

Ron is more sensitive, I think, than even he knows, and I feel like a horrible wife for doing this, but it is what keeps us together.

If it starts to tear us apart instead, I will stop.

+----+

_March 12, 2006_

I stand up, leaving Hermione running her hands over her body in post-orgasmic bliss. She tries to hang onto the sensation more persistently than any woman I have seen, either my wife or in pornography. 

I slip into the attached bathroom, and I scrub down in the shower. The clothes I arrived in are still scattered on the bedroom floor, and there they will remain until Hermione sends them back to me. This is how it always is. A fresh set of my clothes is folded and dry on the counter. This is Ron's doing. The first time, he told me that it would be too awkward to pick up my clothes off the floor and then go take a shower, and since Ginny had said that she wanted me showered when I came home, instead of smelling like sex and Hermione, I did as I was told.

The fourth time Hermione and I did it was the only time there were no clothes laid out in the bathroom. It is no coincidence that the third time was the first time she screamed my name during, nor that that was the day Ron became friends with Malfoy--I wince and correct myself--with Draco. 

He believes I do not know how much anger he harbors towards me, but I do. As I step out of the shower, I am grateful that my friend has matured enough to at least bury his anger until it cools. A few years ago, this would have ended our friendship. Now, we are still friends, even though I have sex with his wife. 

I pad through the bedroom, where Hermione asks if the shower is free. I tell her it is, and then I go to the kitchen. Ron is reading an old Quibbler, trying to solve a crossword puzzle. I know for a fact that no less than seven of the answers are "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry", but I do not tell him so. Instead, I sit across from him and he pushes a glass towards me. Its contents are faintly yellow, and from the taste, they are designed to replace everything I may have lost in his wife's arms.

Briefly, I wonder if this means that the late, lamented Professor Snape--this time, I smile because I did not need to correct myself--taught some unfortunate soul to bottle fame, brew glory, put a stopper on death, and furthermore, to whip up a batch of simplicity.

"Same time next month?" Ron asks.

"Merlin, I hope not," I reply. "It's going to have to take one of these days. Maybe the sixteenth time is the charm?"

"Multiply by three," Ron says drily from behind his tabloid. "That's about what you average."

"I'm sorry you have to hear it," I say.

"Not your fault," he says, and then, because he always says it, he adds "I expect it's Bellatrix Lestrange that did it to me."

I roll my eyes, because this is also how the conversation goes. This part is rote, a ritual to tell us that we're still friends. "Stop a Weasley having children? No, Ron, that was no less than Lord Voldemort's work. Your nethers were cursed by the Dark Lord himself. Must've been, to stop you having seventy kids."

"I'd be happy with one or two," Hermione says when she comes in. "And you can help us with the second one if we decide to have it, right Harry?"

"That's up to Ginny," I say.

Ron pushes a glass of the same yellow stuff to his wife. She kisses him and sits down, then immediately starts planning for next month.

But next month, I am celebrating with them instead of trying again.

When Rose Weasley is born on Christmas 2006, Hermione says that she is the best Christmas present I ever gave to anyone. I am relieved to see that she has inherited her mother's chin and nose, and surprised to see my eyes on the girl. Her cheeks remind me of my Aunt Petunia, but I do not say so.

If I compared his daughter to Petunia, Ron would hex me.

**Author's Note:**

> This popped into my head today because I was incredibly bored. It was too intriguing a concept to not write, so I just had to sit down and drill it into a keyboard. 
> 
> The best part is that it's canon-compliant if you're a little drunk :P


End file.
